Chapter Sixty-Two
When Ava arrived at the theatre the stagehands were already outside, their ladders balanced precariously in the whistling wind, fighting hard to hang the last of the letters.
Behold the Memory Binder, it read. Unlock the mystery of memory.
It had been her mother’s name, once. And then hers. And now it wasn’t numbness that stalked her steps towards the stage door, and the company that awaited her there. It wasn’t triumph, either. It was something quieter. Something new.
They were in the auditorium when she found them – the company waiting on the stage, Lillian sitting, cigarette in one hand, amidst the worn velvet chairs.
It had looked lavish in here once – with its red cushions, and the brass seat numbers all buffed and shining.
Now it looked older, wearier – and it didn’t spark the same thread of nervousness within her as she took her place with the rest of them on the stage – Patience yapping at Mr Green’s feet, Mrs Green picking lint from her jacket, Stanley scuffing his shoe back and forth rhythmically, and in the centre of them all – Tommy. His arms crossed firmly over his chest.
In his face she saw the same question that thudded behind her breastbone.
What if it happens again? What if I freeze up there?
‘I am sure by now you’ve all heard Miss Fairchild has left us,’ Lillian said, the smoke from her cigarette curling upwards in blueish plumes. ‘And that Ava here has agreed to take her place.’
Tommy turned to fix Ava with a scowl.
‘The order of the night will be as follows,’ said Lillian, clicking her fingers rapidly until Bertie scurried forwards, and handed her a piece of paper. ‘We open with Mr and Mrs Green—’
‘And Patience,’ said Mrs Green quickly.
‘And Patience,’ Lillian said. ‘Then Stanley – for comic relief – then Tommy’s first segment—’
Mrs Green beamed. ‘Your first night,’ she said, nudging Stanley’s shoulder.
Lillian cleared her throat pointedly. ‘Then, Mr and Mrs Green return, Tommy comes back for his automaton act—’
‘It’s getting so good now, dear,’ said Mrs Green encouragingly. Tommy’s mouth drew into a thin line.
‘Then,’ said Lillian, taking a slow drag of her cigarette.
Her gaze flicked momentarily to Ava’s, and steadied there.
‘We finish with Ava Adams: the Memory Binder. Curtains. Applause. The Theatre Royal weeps into their empty seats, and my variety show is the only one in Liverpool to survive – with or without Miss Fairchild.’
‘No,’ said Ava.
There was nothing but silence. Stretching, awful silence, until Miss Lillian sat back in her chair, gaze scratching over Ava. ‘“No”?’
‘I’m not going on as the Memory Binder. I’ll not wear her name anymore. Ma’s.’
Ava couldn’t see Tommy’s face, but she could see his hand – curled so tightly into a fist that his knuckles were streaked with white. ‘See? I told you she would do it again—’
‘I’ll go on stage,’ Ava said, pointedly. ‘But under my own name. Under a new name.’
Lillian’s dark eyes narrowed as she watched her. Weighed the words.
‘A new name?’
‘Yes,’ said Ava. ‘I want to be “The Storyteller”.’
Now Lillian’s brow furrowed. ‘You want to become what that fool from the Herald called you?’
‘Critics write a lot of old rot, dear,’ said Mrs Green. ‘You needn’t listen to it.’
‘It’s not because I believe him. It’s because I want to show that it’s something special – helping other people rediscover their stories. Tell their stories.’
‘We could invite him back,’ Bertie said, eyes sliding towards Lillian. ‘The critic. I’m sure he’d come – if only to prove …’ She trailed off, her pipe moving back and forth between her teeth.
‘It’s a big risk,’ Lillian agreed. ‘Especially if we put Tommy in the crowd for you. He sniffed it out once before, what’s to say he wouldn’t—’
‘I don’t want stooges,’ said Ava. ‘And I’ll not have a script.’
‘So, what – it’ll just be you, and the audience?’
‘And my craft,’ said Ava.
And my belief that this time, I can do it.
Because the thought of it didn’t scare her anymore. Not compared to everything else. Not compared to what her brother had said, that day in the kitchen, when she’d asked him whether he wanted love, and he’d hissed a bitter laugh through his teeth.
And do what with it? Hide it away? Make sure no one can see it?
Not compared to how it had felt when Mr Jane had told her she was too late. That Damien was gone.
That she wouldn’t see him again.
Not compared to any of it.